I hate it when bafoons ruin my morning. There he goes, the great ape bumbling around; massive boots, bald head. The cool morning light glows inside the room, pulsing quiet serenity. That is it did until the orang-autang flipped on the kitchen light, casting piss-yellow shine all over my breakfast.
I didn’t plan on having a good morning. And when an unexpected gift is quashed before it can properly be enjoyed, the victim feels the loss doubly. There was no thought in my head on waking that would have led me to try and enjoy myself: I had simply woken up, done my laundry, and suddenly found myself alone. At first the quiet was intimidating—the empty space an endless vacuum… For a moment I wasn’t sure who I was, where I fit in with the rest of the furniture. I imagined how I might assimilate myself with them; stand straight by the lamp, lay next to the couch, bend my joints into right angles near the stairs. My ludicrous fantasies were brushed clean away however when I felt my body relax and become content with the silence. Amazed at the synchronicity taking place I moved carefully to make my breakfast. Repeating the commom motions of cooking set me into a pleasant muse. The risk should have been plain to me then, but as I had no part in the proceedings other than the existential, I drifted deep into the calm of what had become my morning.
And then the Intruder came. My innocence (ignorance perhaps being the better word) lasted only until he opened the door. There he stood, great shoulders, eyes looking nowhere as if trying to find at least one inner thought. I was petrified. The creature seemed to tilt the building with its weight, the vegetable box in his hands adding their prominence to my dismay. He didn’t really see me, much as Goliath must have overlooked young David to his err. Despite the panicked biblical correlation my mind had drawn, I had no saintly delusions. And nearly wept at the great loss. Not for my own sake, but for the massacre of the crystal quiet.
I finished cooking and sat down, avoiding the stompings of homo erectus by hiding as far from its current territory as my wounded pride would allow. I poured pure black coffee into my white cup. And for a moment, the polarity of the act created a micro zen-state that encased only my mind and eyes: deep black brown inside the white porcelain – liquid heating cold solid – energy and caffeine vs the stoic tool. It was too sudden to prevent, and like a foolish lover (already spurned) I lapped at the infinite bliss.
”And then came a sound. Distant first, it grew into castrophany so immense it could be heard far away in space.” ~Gorillaz
Such would I describe the Intruder as it spoke its gargly tongue. Its goudy hooting and grunting destroying the dreams of every child that had ever lived.
My coffee lost its radiance, bliss vanished, and I cursed the name of every man arrogant enough to compose a haiku.
Waking to write, and watch Jack Frost work his winter touch.
In Nature we see there is no story, that every legend, fable, myth is desperate.
Sometimes I wake up hopeful in the morning.
My people call...
Flashcards. New schema for new territory.
After the musk and scent of sweat and desperate breath...
Somedays you either laugh or cry unintentionally.
The lull of Salish swaying below me.
I live in a beautiful little corner on the blue planet.